


come and see

by Siria



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Character of Color, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jessica pays attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come and see

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sheafrotherdon for betaing.

She and John had flirted their way through the first half of their respective clerkships, and dated for the second. Jessica liked him a great deal: he was tall and towheaded and had a sly sense of humour, and he never once behaved as if he didn't think she deserved to be walking the halls of the Supreme Court. They went out for dinner on her birthday, to a restaurant where the tables were covered with crisply starched linen and the menu wasn't gauche enough to list prices. Jessica's satisfaction was as sweet as the wine on her tongue, and she couldn't help but grin when John slid a gift-wrapped package to her across the table. 

"I thought we agreed this dinner was treat enough," she said, mock scolding. "No extra gifts!"

John shrugged, grinning sheepishly. "I saw it in Bridge Street Books the other day—couldn't resist."

Jessica pressed her foot against his under the table and carefully peeled back the wrapping paper. It was a first edition signed copy of _The Bluest Eye_. She stared down at it. "This is very generous," she said after a long moment. 

"I knew you'd love it!" John said, and Jessica had to work to keep the smile on her face. She knew he'd never articulate the second part of that sentence— _because you're a black woman_ —just like he'd clearly never bothered to pay much attention to the books that lined her shelves. Jessica Pearson had never been much for magical realism or flights of fantasy, no matter who the author was. 

Jessica paid for her part of the dinner, over John's protests, and broke up with him, calm but definitive, on the cab ride home.

*****

As soon as her name appeared on the top of the stationery, Jessica began to dress so that people would see her. Nothing vulgar, but she wore her sheath dresses custom tailored; dared to walk through the hallways of her firm with arms bared. She'd thrown away her flat iron the same day she threw away Hardman, got rid of all the unflattering pant suits and conciliatory low heels. The way Jessica saw it, first impressions counted, but when you were a black female lawyer, first impressions had been made before you ever met someone. This way, at least, no matter if someone was smart or stupid, they looked at her and thought _power_. 

Plus, in these heels she was taller than all of those shits.

*****

Once, after winning three big cases in quick succession and earning a mention on the front page of the _New York Times_ , back before they forced Hardman out, she and Harvey ended up in her office at three in the morning, stoned and listening to the wailing saxophone on a Duke Ellington track. 

"You know," Harvey said. He was lying on his back on the couch, shirtsleeves rolled up, contemplating the ceiling with every sign of great fascination. "In another lifetime, you'd have been like… a general or some shit. Led armies. Squashed Napoleon underneath the tread of your mighty boot."

Jessica arched an eyebrow at him, let one of her high-heeled pumps dangle from her toes. "In _another_ lifetime?"

Harvey shrugged expansively. "Well, you know, combat rules and all that. I'm just saying."

"And you know my feeling about idiotic rules," Jessica said, as crisply as she could despite the slow burn of the weed through her system. "Nothing says I won't end up leading an army in this one."

Harvey turned his head to look at her, face solemn and impassive for long enough that Jessica started to think that he'd forgotten what she'd just said—but then his face broke into that big grin that she saw so rarely from him, the one that wasn't predatory or arrogant. "Aye, aye, Cap'n," he said, and when he tried to salute her he just ended up poking himself in the eye. "Son of a bitch!"

"Three years of Harvard Law my ass," Jessica sighed, and poured herself another drink.

*****

Her father had wanted her to be a physician or a politician or a teacher, someone who performed real and quantifiable good in the world. Jessica had always had the aptitude but never the enthusiasm. It wasn't that she didn't take on pro bono cases, or donate to charity, but she knew herself well enough to be aware of the limits of her patience and Jessica had grown up watching her mother and her abuela sweat for shitty pay and less thanks, and she'd always been determined never to give up the best parts of herself for someone else's ingratitude. 

She'd paid off the mortgage on her parents' house as soon as she could afford to; she hadn't kicked Mike Ross out on his ungrateful ass; she'd let Daniel keep up the pretense of dignity because Alicia had always been her friend and the woman was dying by painful degrees. Jessica did what she felt she could, and sometimes it was because she was playing chess and sometimes she was content to let other people think it was because she was playing chess. If her motives sometimes seemed just that little bit opaque… well, other people had always had to work hard to keep up with her.

*****

Jessica had known who Rachel Zane was from day one. She didn't directly oversee the hiring of paralegals, but it never hurt to skim over the files of new employees every now and then—and Rachel's last name was hardly common-or-garden. A quick internet search confirmed that she was indeed the daughter of Robert Zane: managing partner of Rand, Calder and Zane and a royal pain in the ass. This was enough to make Jessica read back over Rachel's résumé with a considering eye, pausing over the fact that Ms Zane had provided some excellent references—not one of whom would readily trace back to her father. In fact, Jessica knew that Rick Lopez outright detested the man, and yet here he was, providing a glowing account of his former student's qualities. 

She'd kept a discreet eye on Rachel from then on. Rachel was good at her job; Jessica liked to encourage competence. Rachel wasn't where she wanted to be, but she'd clearly be damned if she was going to ride on her father's coat tails to get there; Jessica could appreciate that sentiment. None of this meant that Jessica saw her as a kindred spirit, a potential protégée. That kind of sloppy sentimentality had led to Harvey's hiring Mike Ross, and no one had ever accused Jessica of excessive displays of sentiment. 

But Jessica remembered walking through the darkened hallways of the firm one evening and seeing Rachel cross-examining an empty chair. It was at once ridiculous and familiar—seeing someone work through things over and over in a dogged attempt to get them right. Jessica had let herself be quixotic, talking to her, tried to unbalance her; and Rachel hadn't looked comfortable but she hadn't backed down.

Rachel had already earned her own office, but from that point on Jessica made sure to give her more work. Rachel would either back away from the responsibility of it, or it would push her to go further, try harder. Jessica had seen what Rachel might be capable of; she couldn't think of any better compliment than trying to get her to prove it.

*****

It wasn't that he called her bitter and barren that had stung: it was the fact that it hadn't simply been a ploy. Daniel had looked at her with that flat, cold stare of his and meant every word he said. It was the fact that he thought he knew her, could reduce her down to labels, when every time she'd kicked his ass it was because he'd misunderstood her. 

This time, when she won, Jessica was going to make sure that she took the time to correct Hardman of every one of his misapprehensions. This time, when she won, she was going to make him see her and when she twisted the knife he was going to know just who it was who was wielding the blade. 

"You know what I do to someone who hits me below the belt?" she'd asked Harvey. 

"Cut him off at the knees," he'd said, letting just enough confusion seep into his tone to make it clear he didn't think there could be any other answer, and Jessica had smiled to herself and kept on walking—because recognition, when it came, was always sweet.


End file.
